Altar Ego (7 page)

The rest of the time he was in Martyr Mode. Every single sentence he’d uttered since then began with ‘Don’t worry,
I’ll
do it. The man had been inundated with letters of condolence, as though somebody had died. He’d been offering nothing but tea and sympathy to relatives on both sides of the family. But now he was attending the wedding that should have been his, and the guy was ready to burn his boxer shorts.

The façade started to crack soon after we’d been seated in the tapestry-lined dining room, and the wine waiter leant towards me, a white and a red in either hand.

‘Um … white thanks.’

‘Subject, of course, to her indecision,’ said Julian sarkily. ‘Rebecca can’t commit to a wine. As far as she’s concerned, the word “commit” should only be used
next
to the word “murder” … which is an apt description for living with
her
, actually.’

All fourteen eyeballs at our table focussed on me. ‘Julian, do you really think it’s best to spin-dry our dirty laundry in public?’ I darted a desperate look towards Kate.

‘Do you reckon they’ll have veggo?’ Kate interjected helpfully. ‘I can’t eat any animal life that can be seen without a microscope.’

‘No other dietary requirements?’ Julian pondered derisively. ‘Like
smoked foreskins
. It’s thanks to
you
Rebecca eschewed the band of gold – in my opinion,’ he made a mock bow, ‘the most stupid bloody thing you’ve ever done – which is saying something to a woman who once slept with Roman Polanski.’

‘Julian, I don’t want your opinion … and neither does anybody else at this table.’

‘Don’t be ludicrous. I’m a lawyer. Everybody wants my opinion. I’m paid £250 an hour for it.’

‘You slept with Roman Polanski?’ Kate lip-synched, aghast. ‘Why didn’t you ever tell me that?’

The It Girl seated to my left craned around me to inspect this £250 an hour jiltee. Her eyes glinted. ‘Really? She turned down your marriage proposal?’ she purred, leaning right across me to stroke Julian’s sleeve. ‘A handsome, successful, attractive man like you …’

‘I know,’ Julian bantered. ‘If only I had a little humility I’d be perfect. And what do you do?’ Julian
asked
the It Girl, leaning across me to cover her delicate hand with his own.

‘I’m a Trustafarian, actually,’ she trilled. ‘In search of some meaning in my life.’

Meaning that she was in search of a husband. I accidentally slopped my wine into her lap. ‘Oh, you’re an
heiress
. Sorry. I thought you said airhead.’

The atmosphere at table thirteen on this cold May evening became as starched as the tablecloth before us.

‘So,’ gushed Vivian, desperately trying to inject some merriment. ‘What did
you
give them? I had complete gift angst …’

‘Couldn’t you just recycle the gift you bought for us,’ Julian queried scornfully.

‘I hope you only gave presents in plastic,’ I said, ‘’cause they’ll be chucking them at each other in no time.’ I slathered a roll in butter – hey, cholesterol was about all I had left in life.

‘Simon says that lasting relationships are based on nothing more than common interests,’ Vivian persevered.

‘In their case,’ Kate whispered for my benefit, ‘Simon.’

‘… and joint projects. Like children, isn’t that right, Daddy?’

Simon blew her a kiss. ‘Yes, Mummy.’

‘I’m sorry but I have no intention of dilating my cervix the customary three miles, for the pleasure of spending the rest of my life in bathrooms applauding
bowel
movements. Ugh.’ I devoured the entrée in three bites. ‘No. Thank. You.’

‘Personally I want lots and lots of children.’ The Trustafarian said, looking doe-eyed at Julian.

‘Really? Me too.’ Julian laced his arms behind his head and rocked back in his chair. ‘I can just see just myself sitting cross legged at a cubs’ campfire.’

I bristled. ‘Really? I hate children. How can you not hate anyone who can eat sweets without putting on weight?’

‘Working mothers have a much greater risk of heart attack and going bonkers than childless career-women, you know …’ Kate contributed.

‘Well,
you
don’t need to worry,’ Julian retaliated. ‘Not with
that
haircut. That’s a haircut that needs a number under it.’

‘As long as Duracell continue to manufacture, I’ll be okay,’ Kate said. ‘Much more reliable than a man.’

‘You must have the sort of vibrator that requires a lorry drivers’ licence,’ Simon scoffed. ‘Warning. Wide load.’

‘Yes. Just like mine.’ I rallied on behalf of my friend. ‘I’m surprised we haven’t chipped our teeth! Now leave her alone.’

A knife tapped on a glass as the Best Man rose to his feet for the ritual Humiliatingly Indiscreet Speech By Groom’s Soon-to-Be-Ex-Friend.

‘
You own a vibrator?
’ Julian interrupted the silence in horrified amazement. Surrounding tables gawped
at
us, simultaneously. ‘
When did you get a vibrator?
’

Now, even the Best Man was looking in our direction.

‘Julian …’ I shushed him.

‘I just can’t believe that you’d wait till now, five years into a relationship, to tell me you don’t want children and you own a vibrator.’

‘Maybe you’re insufficiently in touch with your feminine side?’ Simon, the Red Adair of Relationships, suggested.

‘Oh fuck off,’ I said, femininely.

‘Would you
mind
?’ hissed someone’s great aunt, two tables over.

Oh, nothing like a wedding to bring out the best in people. Much more of this and I’d develop a facial tic. After the lame speeches I was just contemplating finding a bathroom window I could escape out of again, when I first laid eyes on Zachary Phoenix Burne. It wasn’t hard to spot him. The collective female ‘phwaah’ that filled the room as he took to the dance floor could have been the give-away. I had never, ever seen anything quite like his cardiac-arresting combination of tangled black hair, pernod-coloured, stray-cat eyes, straining Levi fly buttons, silver-stud earring and musculature last seen on George Clooney in his rubber Bat suit. Each bicep was the size of a guest bedroom. On the left hibernated a death adder, which reared to strike whenever he flexed. This guy wasn’t just sexy, he was a crotch-moistener. A mammary-achingly,
take-me-now-you-brute
, drop-dead dreamy hunk of spunk. But … in an understated kind of way. The tear in his black jeans, situated just below his butt, was in the shape of a sly smile. No. More like an eye that winked as he moved. And moving was what he did best. ‘Dancing’ is too tame a word. It was more like floor-carving. The guy could give dancing lessons to Michael Jackson. It was as dirty as you could get without latex. A girl could get up the duff just by jiving with a man like that. If he was trying to come over as a hot-to-trot stud puppy with buns of steel, then he’d definitely scored.

‘Okay, Kate. Have I got a
guy
for
you
.’

‘I don’t want a guy, you big galah … Bloody Hell!’ Even Kate was dumbstruck when I swivelled her towards the dance floor.

‘We have a ten.’ I mimed the actions of an Olympic Judge holding aloft the score card of a parallel-bar performer.

‘And a half,’ adjudicated Kate.

When Zachary Burne left the floor, the sound of a hundred women tearing their eyes away from his body was like Velcro.

‘Do you want to dance?’ I asked Julian, curling my fingers around his arm.

‘You know I can only do two types of dances. One of them is the funky chicken and the other one isn’t.’ Julian brushed aside my hand as though it were a hive of hornets. ‘
You own a vibrator?
’

All around us, on chandeliers and banisters and chair backs, there were reclining carved cupids, lyre-plucking Hymens, naked Apollos and Adonises lounging lasciviously. ‘Come on, Jules. Dance with me …’

‘What I really want to do is hail the winged chariot.’ He yawned, peering at his watch. ‘Jesus, what are you people? Vampires?’

What makes Julian an unusual human rights activist is that he hates humans. Leaving early was part of his People Avoidance Programme. This was a guy who liked humankind in theory, but not in practice.

‘You always want to go early,’ I sulked. ‘You’re a social premature ejaculator, do you know that?’

‘Spoken by the woman who climbed out of the loo window on her own wedding day.’

‘We never have any fun any more … You’re such a Grown-Up.’

‘Yeah, well. It’s time you grew up too.’

‘And it’s time
you
grew
down
… Jesus Christ, we’re just like an old …’

I nearly said ‘married couple’ but stopped just in time. The thump thump of the music, the oppressive warmth of the room, the psychological claustrophobia of being at a wedding with the man I’d jilted – made me feel as though I’d been swallowed whole by a boa-constrictor. ‘I need a cigarette.’ I stood up.

‘You don’t smoke,’ Julian chastised, taking me by the wrist and tugging me back into my chair.

‘Oh, Julian,’ I said sadly. ‘You sound just like a husband.’

If I didn’t get outside and fast, I thought I might regurgitate my £85-a-head meal on to the antique woven rugs. Watched by the portraits of censorious ancestors and the dark eye-slits of suit after suit of sinister armour, I wrenched off my shoes, hitched up my frock and ran through the hall, down the stone steps and across the dewy lawn that rioted with tulips, dodging an earie topiary menagerie and assorted architectural follies, deep into a cool, dark glen.

I leant, wheezing, against an oak. I looked up at the tangled canopy, necklaced with dew. Glinting through the trees I glimpsed the dark ribbon of river. I took in the faraway sounds of people laughing, masts clinking, boat engines receding into silence.

I also ever so slowly realized that I was listening to someone else’s breathing.

At the sound of a match striking, I wheeled around. A flickering orange ember illuminated a male hand. I peered through the hungry shadows, trying to discern the interloper.

‘Wouldn’t it be sad if there are no little green men?’ said the cigarette end. ‘… Suppose Human Beings are as intelligent as Intergalactic life gets?’

I fired up my own cigarette. The match briefly spot-lit the midnight philosopher. Lying supine on a low-slung branch was the Man Who Took Women’s Breath Away. He peeled open one eye, barely
bothering
to blink as he looked me up and down with casual disdain before giving a low, honeyed smirk.

Hormonal Houston. We have lift off. We’re going warp factor ten to Planet Passion. I was just wondering if it would be an even more serious breach of wedding etiquette to snog, marry and have children with one of the guests – when my match died.

The symbolism wasn’t lost on me as I burnt my fingers.

6
Posh Frock, No Knickers

A MICRO-SECOND LATER
I re-entered earth’s atmosphere. What the hell was I doing? I was practically married. I was now a user of Crone Cream. What’s more, up close, this guy was just out of nappies. He looked about twenty-two. Besides, in navigating my way through life, I was no longer keeping my compass in my camiknickers.

‘I’m sorry about disturbing you,’ I said primly. Who
was
I all of a sudden? Miss Jean Brodie? I unlaced the frilly maroon bodice of my skintight bridesmaid frock. ‘I just couldn’t
stand
another
minute
of holding my stomach in. This truly is the most God-awful, snobby, excessively pompous wedding I’ve ever had the misfortune to attend.’

‘Yeah?’ The voice was American, languid, lazy. ‘I
find
a good way to relieve “excessive pomp” is to fuck yer brains out behind the altar.’

Did Stud Muffin just say what I thought he just said? It had, after all, been a rather long and fraught day. Now I was having audial hallucinations. Just to be safe, I moved out of the throbbing darkness. ‘Nice meeting you,’ I farewelled over my shoulder. ‘Part of my allergy to weddings is my complete hopelessness at inane small talk.’

‘Really?’ I heard the soft thud of his feet as he sprang to the ground. ‘I’d say yer doin’ jes’ fine.’

Cheeky bastard. ‘Better than you.’ I eyeballed him, Brodie-style. ‘
Your
main conversation no doubt revolves around how long you’ve got to go in your parole.’

‘Con-ver-sa-tion? Um … That’s “words” ain’t it? Those things we use to kill time until we fuck.’

Obviously the guy accounted for half the known world supply of Smartass. But little did he know that
I
had the other half. ‘I didn’t realize that Anouska’s guest list ran to pets and other animals.’

Well that was the end of him. I slogged through the wet grass towards the pool. This was the pool where high-class hooker Christine Keeler had cavorted naked with Tory ministers in the sixties. Legs dangling off the diving board, I was just casually pondering whether that made it more of a bidet than a pool, when the Man Who Took Women’s Breath Away breezed out of the shadows and perched his peachy posterior on
the
head of what looked like an ancient Greek sculpture. Obviously not the antiquities type.

‘There’s one cool thing about weddin’s. The … what do you Brits call it? Oh yeah. The PFNK look.’ I raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Posh Frock No Knickers.’ Smiling salaciously, he stretched out one of those legs that started at his ear lobes, and lifted up the hem of my dress with the toe of his cowboy boot. ‘Love that look.’

I slapped his leg. ‘Um … dare I use the words “tiny”, “cock” and “obviously you’ve got a” in the same sentence?’

In response, the Eye-Candy leant forward, nonchalantly took my hand and placed it on his groin. This was not a penis. This was a vaulting pole. I’d heard that Americans have a lot of effrontery, but ten inches before we even knew each other’s first name? Who did he think he was? … Bill Clinton? I snatched my hand away.

‘Hey, never point a loaded penis at anyone. I could report you to Kenneth Starr!’

‘Yeah? Where I come from, it’s considered impolite not to have sex with the bridesmaids.’ A mutinous grin split his face. ‘Besides, it’s loaded, sure. But there’s a safety catch. I ain’t in’erested in any woman who ain’t in’erested in me. Although, it sure is difficult to tell the way you females say yes when you mean no and say no when you mean yes. Cigarette?’